Sweethearts
by spectrosilver
Summary: Ficlet. DP. 'The February day ended in that room, the two alone and together. And while sweethearts cuddled around cozy fires, sipping butterbeer and smiling, they stood in the cold.'


Disclaimer: I do not own rights to Harry Potter. All characters and related material belong to J.K. Rowling. This is for entertainment purposes only, no money is being made.

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**Sweethearts**

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spectrosilver

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        Once things were beautiful.  And people were happy and _she_ was happy and she wasn't _afraid_ of the feeling. But beauty never stays past due, and that was a very, very long time ago.  

        Now she sat in an olive coloured chair, twirling her wand and tapping her toes on the dull, green floor.  Just waiting, still as could be, for him to come down those stairs.  Those horrible, grey, cold stairs.  She thought of the snow and the wind and the horrible charms exam she had _just barely_ passed.  And she thought of the new _shoes_ her owl had delivered during breakfast, oh how _charming_!, and the sweet, sweet apricot jam spread on the toast at breakfast, still lingering in her mouth.  And she thought some more thoughts, but no matter how hard she tried not to think, his face kept creeping into those thoughts.  That horrible, flat blonde hair and that wicked, crocked smile.  The smile that she loved.  And she sat there in silence, contemplating why her heart had taken a liking to this creature, this wrenched, foul boy who barely had a heart of his own.  And she wondered if that's how she came across, as _wretched_ and _foul_ as a Malfoy, because that's _surely_ how she wanted to.  Her head began to ache as she pictured him, at the top of the stairs, piercing into her mind.  Of course, he was really there, at the top of those stairs, but there was little chance he could read minds.  She knew this and he knew it better.  

        And her heart ached as he spoke her name and took her hand, walking with her to that place.  Their place.  And she cursed to hell under her breath for the jagged pain that tore through her chest to stop, to end. To leave her cursed heart for good, for eternity.  To take her miserable heart and squeeze it one last time, just once more, so the pain would stop and her heart would be no more.  Because having a heart was something bad. _Horribly bad_ was an understatement, and _dreadfully bad_ sounded too untailored for such serious issues.  But _she_ was bad, wasn't she?  In every _bad sense _of _being bad_, that is.Being bad like _that_ was different from this, though.  Being bad _to be_ bad, and being good _but being_ bad.  It was all so confusing and she hung her head with a sigh of annoyance, making a loud groin in the midst. 

        He took it upon himself not to care that she was there, so pitiful, and he ignored the fact that she had been so off lately.  He stared out the window, icicles hanging on the sill, and watched life move on.  He smirked at her across the room, the dungeon.  She swore she heard his heart beat, thump, in the cold.  She supposed an icy-cool heart like his could only feel _comfortable_ on the coldest of days, and laughed when she thought of her own ponderings.  Winter days could certainly mess up one's mind.

        She raised her head up and shook her hair and smiled at him in the shadows.  She sat in the chair, _she owned the chair_, as if she were a royal occupying a thrown.  But she _was_ royal, in her mind if not more, and she acted no less _always_.  She had her off points, her really, really low points, but she always returned the same.  The same old Pansy Parkinson came back sooner or later.

        The February day ended in that room, the two alone and together.  And while sweethearts cuddled around cozy fires, sipping butterbeer and smiling, they stood in the cold.  In the cold and in dim, silver shadows.  The only place the Slytherin sweethearts belonged.

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A/N: I'm trying to write again.I hate prolonged, unexpected absences. I blew off an English essay to write this (I'll be up late tonight) and wrote continuously, which is why it might be odd.  (OH! _And_ sorry.in this story, again, _and_ is my favourite word.!)


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